Ruby Redoux, Take Two
by tpel
Summary: Continuing character exploration of Abby and Dubenko. Chapter 4 picks up just before Dubenko's prostate surgery.
1. Default Chapter

Author's note: this is an inserted/altered scene which takes place during the episode, "Ruby Redoux." Basically, I wasn't getting enough Dubenko, so I wrote in some more!

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Outside Mr. Rubadoux's room, Dr. Anspaugh's stern voice rose as he chastised Abby Lockhart: "If you have concerns, you ask the consulting doctor to step outside to discuss them. You do not, in front of a patient, attempt to subtly disagree with a senior cardiologist and the Chief of Surgery! That kind of behavior is helpful to no one. Do you understand?"

Thrown back into the role of guilty schoolgirl, it took a second for Abby to regain the ability to speak. Then she answered, "Yes, I understand." As Anspaugh began to brush past her, she added belatedly, "I have concerns."

Anspaugh didn't even reply. He just fixed her with a steely glare and walked away.

"That went well," Abby berated herself, rolling her eyes upward and exhaling. She knew that Anspaugh was right about her behavior – it was inappropriate for her to challenge his opinion in front of the patient. But still, she felt that he was wrong on the more urgent issue of Mr. Rubadoux's surgery.

Lowering her gaze, Abby realized that she was being watched. Dr. Dubenko stood observing her from a couple of yards down the hall, a bemused expression on his face. 'Oh God, like I need this now,' Abby thought. She regarded the surgeon with her best 'go away' look.

Dubenko either didn't pick up on the repulsing vibe, or he was undeterred by it. He closed the gap between them and addressed Abby, smirking slightly, "You know, Lockhart, when I told you to be more assertive, I wasn't really suggesting that you take on Dr. Anspaugh."

Despite her frustration, the comment made her grin at the absurdity of the situation. Here she was, an intern, going up against two senior attendings, one of whom was arguably the most powerful man in the hospital. What the hell was she thinking?

"Am I crazy?" Abby sighed, "The patient is an 85 year-old male, aortic stenosis, history of heart disease including chronic CHF, weak kidneys, reduced lung capacity, and did I mention that he's 85 years old? . . . Would you operate on him?"

Dubenko paused thoughtfully, then replied, "I might . . ."

Abby's shoulders slumped.

". . . but only after I had done everything in my power to convince him and his family that it was a bad idea."

"I've done everything I can think of to do," Abby retorted, "Kayson and Anspaugh, in Mr. Rubadoux's mind they're what doctors are supposed to look like. I'm just some overgrown nurse. I bring up risk factors and he completely ignores me."

"It's your job to _make_ him see you as a doctor."

"Well, I can't. And I don't think he should get inappropriate care because of that."

Dubenko stared at a point above Abby's left shoulder. She fancied that she could see the wheels turning as he computed probabilities for various outcomes of the surgery and estimated the likelihood that Abby would be able to shake an octogenarian out of his ageist/sexist world-view.

Darting back into eye contact, Dubenko asked, "Who's your attending?"

"Carter. But Mr. Rubadoux is convinced that Carter killed his wife 10 years ago and doesn't even want to be in the same room with him."

"Ah." There really wasn't much to say to that. A long pause ensued. Abby and Dubenko just looked at each other. Then Dubenko shrugged and said, "OK. I'll give it a try."

Until he said it, Abby hadn't realized that that was what she'd been hoping for – to have somebody on her side. She smiled, relieved, but asked, "Won't Dr. Anspaugh be mad at you?"

"Not as mad as his is at you," Dubenko tossed back with a crooked grin, as he opened the door and entered Mr. Rubadoux's room. He closed the door behind him, not so subtly indicating that Abby should stay outside. She agreed that it was better that way. Dubenko might as well have a fresh start with the patient.

As Abby waited in the hallway, someone grabbed her from behind, large hands covering her eyes. She panicked for a moment, flashing back to her abductors' van, staring helplessly out the window as they drove to what she assumed would be her death. Jake's voice broke the spell. While she wasn't thrilled that he continued to keep his hands over her eyes as he chatted about how much she must hate this, the delay in releasing her let her complete the transition from terror to irritation.

When she could see again, Abby glanced back toward Ruby's room. Following her gaze, Jake asked, "What's up?"

"Dubenko's trying to convince my patient not to have open heart surgery."

Watching through the glass door, Abby could see Dubenko's mop of curly brown hair from behind as he sat facing Mr. Rubadoux, and could make out snatches of their conversation. At first, things seemed to be going reasonably well. Dubenko didn't have the personal gravity of an Anspaugh, but he projected confidence when it came to medicine. And, while his social skills could never be described as smooth, Abby had seen him deal kindly with patients in the ER. For several minutes, the surgeon spoke in a low voice. Mr. Rubadoux appeared to be listening.

Then Ruby's indignant bark broke through Dubenko's more subdued tones, "I should've known better than to expect decent care in this dump! You're trying to get rid of me – to pawn me off on somebody else, just like they did with my Sylvie."

Dubenko's quiet, measured response was met with, "That's not what the other doctors said. Are you saying they're wrong? Why can't you people get your stories straight?"

After several angry rebuffs in which Mr. Rubadoux accused Dubenko of trying to trick him out of the treatment to which he was entitled, the surgeon seemed to lose focus. He didn't return any of Ruby's aggression; instead, the more irrational Ruby was, the more hyper-rational Dubenko became. He got up and walked around, drifting into analyses of morbidity statistics and ejection coefficients.

"Please don't draw a graph, please don't draw a graph," Abby murmured.

Sure enough, out came the marker and Dubenko made an impromptu visual aid showing multiple vectors and data points. On the Dubenko oddness scale, this was actually pretty mild – the graph stayed within the confines of a large x-ray envelope rather than sprawling across the wall. But it was enough to drive the nails into the coffin of an already dying conversation; Ruby looked at the surgeon like he had two heads.

A few minutes later Dubenko came out of the room. In a deadpan voice he reported, "Mr. Rubadoux says I'm 'too shifty'."

Abby bit her lip to keep from laughing. She couldn't tell whether Dubenko's eyes held puzzlement or self-depreciating humor. 'He's got to know that he weirds people out, right?'

Still, he had tried. Abby regarded him warmly, saying, "Thanks anyway." At the same time, Dubenko addressed her companion, "Hi Jake."

While Jake returned the greeting, Abby found herself checking her body language and proximity to the younger man. As a general rule, she didn't like to appear too "couple-y" around the hospital. Especially around Dubenko. Especially since that painfully awkward let's-write-an-article-over-burgers encounter.

Actually, part of her wanted Dubenko to know that she was seeing someone, so that, hopefully, he would stop making a fool of himself on her behalf. Although she didn't like to admit it, Abby knew that she rarely felt protective of the men she was involved with – she was too busy protecting herself _from_ them. So, it struck her as odd that she felt a sort of empathy toward this guy in whom she _wasn't_ romantically interested. Of course, that was how she felt at moments like this, when Dubenko came off as a nice harmless eccentric. There were other times when she wouldn't be at all surprised to learn that he kept human heads in his freezer.

Abby snapped out of her reverie when Dubenko asked Jake, "So, how was San Francisco?"

'San Francisco? Crap! I completely forgot to ask him about his trip.' Aloud, she tacked on, "Oh, yeah, how was it?"

Jake enthused a bit about the residency program, but ended by calling it "a long shot." Then, glancing over at Abby, he added, "Of course, I could match right here at County."

Abby could feel Jake scanning her features, gauging her reaction. She smiled back noncommittally. He should know better than to expect more than that in public.

Dubenko went on about how UCSF's surgical program compared with County's: ". . . so for right now, they're stronger, but hopefully that will change in the near future as we hire more surgeons – preferably some who have an interest in teaching . . ." He trailed off, distracted by the buzz of his pager.

Abby and Jake shared a look as Dubenko read his pager. Briefly returning at least some of his attention to them, Dubenko nodded and began to take his leave, heading toward the elevators. But after a couple of steps he turned back to Jake and offered, "Let me know if you want to talk strategy."

Abby surmised that "strategy" had something to do with preparing for interviews and such. When she went through the match last year, Susan had briefly worked with her on shaping up her CV. Abby got the impression that Dubenko was a bit more intense about the whole process. And, perhaps, about _every_ process, she thought, smiling wryly.

Glancing over at Abby, Dubenko continued, "Speaking of strategy, Mr. Rubadoux mentioned a Dr. Obelmeyer . . ."

"Yeah, that's his regular doctor. We've been trying to contact him."

"Keep trying. He's your best shot at getting through to him." Although the surgeon was facing Abby, he appeared to be listening for something behind him. The ding of the elevator arriving at the floor sent him off briskly. Abby and Jake walked in the same direction, at a more relaxed pace.

Stepping inside the elevator, Dubenko's lips quirked into an enigmatic smile as he added, "Some minor alterations in the surgical schedule might bump Mr. Rubadoux's procedure back a few hours." Then the doors closed and he was gone.

Now that they were alone, Jake turned to Abby and asked flirtatiously, "So, what _would_ happen if I matched right here?"

"Well, Jake, then you would be working at County . . ." came the coy reply.

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Like it? Hate it? Suggestions? For now, this is a stand-alone fic, though I may do additional chapters, each of which would be a relatively self-contained vignette.


	2. Amends

As he waited for his 7:00 appointment to arrive, Dr. Dubenko caught himself moving the same pile of papers on his desk for the third time. He inferred that he was nervous, a fact which mildly irritated him. He didn't have anything to be nervous about.

On the contrary, the person with whom he had the appointment, and who was now ten minutes late, ought to be a bit nervous, but probably wasn't. This hypothesis was confirmed when Edward Dorsett came into the inner office, knocking as he entered, an easygoing smile on his face and a glib greeting on his lips.

When Dubenko arrived at County, Dorsett had been his first work-friend, mostly because they shared the honor of being hated by their boss, Dr. Corday. It wasn't long, however, before Dubenko learned that Corday actually had quite good reason for detesting Eddie, and, in any case, found that he had little in common with the man. Still, they got along pretty well, despite the fact that Dorsett tended to regard him with the air of a cool kid who deigns to hang out with the class nerd. Dorsett didn't have the scientific appreciation necessary to be a truly innovative surgeon. But he was game to try new things, and thus, was among the easiest members of the department for Dubenko to prod along into using cutting edge techniques.

Not having much use for social niceties, Dubenko cut right to the chase, "Dr. Lotz has filed a sexual harassment complaint against you."

Dorsett looked pissed, but not surprised. The ugly unraveling of his affair with his resident was hardly a secret, and she had pretty much publicly announced her intention to make him pay in any way she could.

"Harassment my ass," Dorsett grumbled, "She was plenty willing! I didn't hear any complaints out of her until she found out about that oncology nurse. Do you know the bitch actually called my wife?"

Eddie went on to describe his wife's vituperative reaction and speculate about various men with whom she might be sleeping, all in far more sordid detail than Dubenko wanted. Honestly, although he liked thinking about ethics at an abstract level – drafting carefully worded policies, evaluating behaviors without the behav_ers_ present – up close and personal he found it messy and distasteful. People made stupid decisions, then spewed emotional detritus all over everything and everyone in the aftermath. He mentally escaped from listening to Dorsett's diatribe by imagining fractal patterns in the blood spray from a pair of severed arteries.

Unfortunately, with Anspaugh on vacation, it was his job to deal with the situation, at least temporarily. He pulled himself back into the present and waited uncomfortably for Dorsett to pause for breath. Then he broke in with a curt, "Your wife isn't my problem."

Eddie's eyebrows shot up.

'_Did he expect me to be his buddy about this?'_ Dubenko mused. He wasn't bothered by the fact that the younger man didn't take him seriously as an authority figure. People rarely did, without a program of consistent reinforcement. For the most part, he was content to assert himself enough to make his colleagues attend to his medical and surgical views. When and if he became Chief of Surgery permanently, then he would work on the rest.

Dubenko explained evenly, "Look, you know there'll be an internal investigation, and Legal will get involved if it goes that far. Right now, I'm doing damage control. Obviously, you can't supervise her any more."

"Fine, I'll switch residents with Edson."

"Dale doesn't want to switch."

"Well, I'm not taking Wu. Or Brander. Have you seen the size of the mole on her . . ."

"I'll take over with Lotz now," Dubenko informed the other man, "I'll give you one of my new interns after the match."

Dorsett's face fell. From the point of view of many attendings, having advanced residents meant less work, but having interns meant the opposite.

Dubenko headed off any complaints with, "The residents got shuffled around mid-year when Corday left. As much as possible, I want to keep them with their current supervisors." Knowing that he was in the minority in that he gave educational needs priority when making staff assignments, he added as consolation, "You can have Scanlon if he matches here. He's pretty good, knows his way around already."

Dubenko would have preferred to keep Jake Scanlon on, himself. Jake was a likable young man and it was nice to see students progress into doctors through their intern year. But Scanlon had gained a strong grounding in the basics of surgery during his rotation; moving on to work with Dorsett might be good for him. Plus he was male. _'No way am I giving Eddie anyone with a pair of X chromosomes . . .'_

He suppressed a smirk at this last thought, then looked over at his colleague, who was smirking openly. Dorsett said, "Yeah, I can see how it might be a good idea for you to put some distance between yourself and Scanlon."

Dubenko turned the other doctor's words around in his mind, trying to find an angle from which they made sense. He came up empty. Before he could request clarification, Dorsett explained as if stating the obvious, "You know, on account of you've been hitting on his girlfriend."

While Dubenko chewed on this information, Eddie let out a short laugh, "Jeezus, you didn't know? Jake. Abby. They're not exactly out in the open about it, but the gossip mill's been kicking up stuff about them for weeks." Grinning smugly, he added, "Trust me, Len, if you want to nail this girl, you've gotta keep track of who else she's screwing."

Dubenko was not one to lose his temper easily. In fact, some past acquaintances had joked that he didn't even _have_ a temper to lose. But he suddenly felt a lot of anger toward Dorsett and wasn't sure how to deal with it. It bugged him unreasonably to hear the other man refer to Abby in such a crude way, and he hated the implication that his own behavior was anything like Dorsett's. He stammered, "I -- I'm not trying to . . ."

"The hell you're not," Dorsett shot back, "You go down to the ER for consults whenever you can, you switched with me for that stupid Santa thing, and, rumor has it, you roped Lockhart into going out with you under the guise of writing a paper."

Mortification overwhelmed the anger that Dubenko was still trying to process. People were talking about _him_, making his actions seem sleazy and inappropriate. And Abby was mixed up in the whole mess. And Abby had a boyfriend. And he felt like such an idiot. Self-accusations darted around in his mind too quickly for him to catch and analyze . . .

Dorsett must have read the distress on his companion's face, because he softened his tone. "It's OK. Don't freak. Hey, I'm good at this stuff, and look where it's gotten me. You kind of suck at it, which, you know, isn't necessarily a bad thing. I just don't want to see you get in over your head." Rising, he patted the older surgeon on the arm, "I need to go. I have another, uh, engagement. Don't worry; I know the drill. I'll stay away from Lotz and I'll bring you her file in the morning."

Lost in thought, Dubenko was only vaguely aware of his colleague leaving.

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A few days later . . .

Abby and Sam stood in Trauma 1, which was quiet in the wake of their latest patient. The patient was bleeding in too many places to be saved, but he was a good teaching case. Dubenko and his new resident came down for the consult, ran a few procedures, and pronounced the poor guy dead. Abby was left to complete the chart as Sam cleaned up some empty equipment trays.

Unexpectedly, Dr. Dubenko ducked back into the trauma room and asked Abby, "Can I talk to you a minute?"

Sam shot Abby a little grin as she left the room. Abby knew that the nurse found "Dr. Hair" amusing. _'Yeah, sure, the weirdos are always funny when it's somebody else they're fixated on.'_

"OK," Abby answered neutrally. Dubenko hadn't been too much of a pain in the recent trauma. Most of his questions were directed at Dr. Lotz, though Abby kept getting the creepy feeling that he was watching her when she wasn't looking.

Right now, however, he wasn't watching her at all. He studied the exam table as he spoke: "It's come to my attention that, uh, some of my actions with regard to you might, uh, be interpreted in a way that, well, they may have impacted negatively on you . . . What I mean is, given your professional situation, they might have made you uncomfortable . . ."

'_Kinda feeling uncomfortable right now_,' Abby thought, but she didn't want to prolong the agony of the conversation so she waved him off with "Don't worry about it" as she tried to head past him out the door.

Dubenko moved in front of her, saying, "Wait . . . please . . ."

He wasn't exactly blocking her path, but getting around him would require Abby to compromise her personal space. _'Somebody ought to explain to him that trapping someone in a trauma room is not the best way to make amends.'_ She stopped walking, folded her arms, and waited for him to continue.

The undivided attention seemed to rattle Dubenko further. He fiddled with a loose bolt on the side of the equipment cart as he babbled, "It's not like I haven't taken other students and residents out to dinner. But I didn't intend to not give you a chance to say 'no' . . . Well, of course that's what I intended, because then you would've said 'no'. But I didn't want to pressure you. That is, I mean, I . . ."

He paused for a moment, taking a deep breath as if reining himself in. Then he looked directly at Abby, held her gaze intently, and said, "It wasn't fair to you. I'm sorry."

Abby felt her cynical detachment crack, just a little. Apologies so rarely ended up being actually apologetic that she wasn't sure how to respond. After a moment, she replied simply, "It's OK."

He nodded, still holding her gaze.

Trying to level with him, Abby said, "I'm seeing someone."

A corner of Dubenko's mouth quirked upward. He glanced away briefly, then looked back at Abby and replied, "But that's not why you're not interested, is it?"

'_Aaaagh!'_ Abby lamented to herself. She was trying to let him down easy. Why did he have to go making things harder on both of them? Even revealing that she's involved with someone was a bit too direct for Abby's tastes. She preferred passively waiting out unwanted attention. But Dubenko's piercing stare seemed to compel an honest answer, so she replied as gently as possible, "No, it isn't."

For a moment there was real hurt in the surgeon's gray eyes. Then he looked down. When he resumed eye contact a second or two later, he smiled and said, "Alright then." He nodded pleasantly at her, and began to leave the room.

'_Wait – that's it? One minute he's obsessed with me, the next he's bowing out graciously?'_ Abby was perplexed. She was also concerned. It wouldn't be hard for Dubenko to figure out with whom she was involved. Jake had to work with this guy and was dependent on his recommendation to get a good match placement. Dubenko didn't seem the vindictive sort, but he definitely had the power to make both of their lives difficult. Before he could leave, she ventured, "So, we're OK then?"

"Um, sure," the surgeon replied. Grinning wryly, he added, "Believe it or not, I _have_ been turned down before."

Abby found herself smiling at his candor, despite frustration that he missed the subtext of her question. OK, let's try again: "I mean, for working together, it could be . . . awkward." (_'Come on, please read between the lines just this once . . .'_)

"Oh, do you think?" Dubenko's tone was curious, not sarcastic. "Well, I'll see what I can do about that. In any case, you don't have anything to worry about – you didn't do anything wrong."

On the face of it, it was hard for Abby to see how this last sentence could be read as anything other than a veiled threat. Being told by a superior that there's nothing to worry about was a red flag in itself, and the reason given in support of the assurance sounded so naive that it had to be disingenuous. But there was something abundantly sincere about the way Dubenko said it. He sounded like he was stating a simple truth about reality – his reality, anyway.

With a quick furtive smile and a nod, the surgeon left the room. Abby stood there for a moment, contemplating the notion that whatever planet Dubenko was from might not be such a bad place. Then she shrugged and went about the business of completing her patient's chart.

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Author's ramblings: What's in a name? On ER, Dubenko doesn't have one – a first name, that is. So far, each fanfic writer has chosen a different name for him (Dancing Namek and Dubenko Junkie, I love your stuff!). Continuing this practice, I've picked 'Lenya,' in part because it has a nice phonetic resemblance to the names other writers are already using, and also because I like the meaning – 'lion' (there's something leonine about that hair!). Mostly, I'll refer to him as Dubenko, but if you see a 'Len' or a 'Lenya' pop up, you'll know why.

Anyone know of anyplace to discuss our favorite socially inept surgeon, fics in progress, etc? I was depending on TWoP for my summer hiatus Dubenko fixes, and now the thread is gone . . .


	3. May the Force be with You

If you hate Star Wars, you may want to skip thischapter . . .

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May 18, 2005

"Do you have them?" Susan Lewis nudged, as Abby rooted through her bag outside the theater, "Don't tell me you lost them, 'cuz we are _not_ missing this show . . ."

"Got 'em!" Abby announced triumphantly, holding up a pair of tickets she'd stowed in her purse a week ago. A lot can change in a week . . .

Abby remembered Jake telling her about the contest. Apparently, County had saved the life of some Cineplex big-wig's daughter, and he showed his gratitude by donating 20 tickets for the preview screening of 'Star Wars: Episode III' to the hospital. Somehow, Jerry had acquired the job of distributing said tickets. He devised an online quiz to determine who was worthy:

"_Name the bounty hunter who was shot by Han Solo in the bar at Mos Eisley," Jake read from the computer screen, with Abby looking over his shoulder, "Oh, come on, who knows this stuff?"_

"_Greedo," Abby supplied, then went on to another question, "Heh – 'Who is the most annoying computer generated character of all time?'"_

"_That's not even a real question," Jake complained, "It's subjective."_

_Abby reached around him and typed, "Jar Jar Binks."_

It had been sweet of Jake to try to cultivate an interest, but his efforts accentuated their generation gap. Although Abby didn't consider herself to be a hardcore fan, she'd grown up on C3PO and R2D2, and Jake didn't quite get the nostalgia factor. Nevertheless, after Abby had won them a pair of tickets, he'd been reasonably enthusiastic about going with her to the show.

That was before they'd had "the talk." The talk that Abby had been hoping to avoid, but knew she couldn't. The talk that resulted in them, now, not speaking to each other.

On the one hand, Abby felt like she did the only morally acceptable thing she could do: she told Jake not to make any life-altering decisions, such as where to go for his residency, on the basis of their relationship. Jake had been just what she needed after the angst and drama of her time with Carter, but she had never tried fool herself, or Jake, that there was more to it than that, and she wasn't going to let him screw up his professional future on account of her. On the other hand, she could see why he felt hurt. Nobody likes to have it shoved in their face that they are more emotionally invested than their partner is.

All of this worked out well for Susan, who eagerly claimed the extra ticket and walked ahead of Abby as they entered the crowded theater. The seats and tickets were numbered for the event. It was easy to find the contingent from County, sitting in parts of two adjacent rows; Jerry's bright orange "Let's make WOOKIE" T-shirt would be hard to miss.

Abby recognized most of the County group, which included doctors, nurses, and staff members from various departments. She and Susan took their places next to Sam and her son Alex, in the row in front of Jerry. Upon sitting, Abby noticed Dr. Dubenko on the other side of Jerry – from the aisle he had been obscured by the desk clerk's bulk. Dubenko and Jerry were deeply immersed in some kind of debate. Abby overheard the word "mitichlorines" and decided to steer clear of that conversation.

After chatting with Sam for a few minutes, Susan announced, "OK, time for some munchies." She and Jerry made their way toward the aisle.

"A real friend would bring back Sno-Caps," Abby called after them.

Dubenko caught Abby's eye and smiled at her, then he abruptly turned his attention to the complimentary movie pamphlet.

Abby conceded that, much to her surprise, it had not been especially hard working with Dubenko since their trauma-room conversation. He didn't ignore her, or avoid her, or act any weirder than usual. He didn't seem embarrassed; rather, unless his mind was elsewhere, he generally seemed happy to see her. For better or for worse, he went on trying to mentor her, as before. The only difference was now he made a point of not singling her out. Practically speaking, that meant Neela got dragged along on the impromptu science lessons and assertiveness training.

Abby grinned, recalling Neela's sarcastic 'Oh, thank you so much for sharing' jibes. But actually, the arrangement wasn't so bad: Neela was enough of a science geek that she knew what Dubenko was getting at some of the time, and, in Abby's opinion, the younger intern could benefit from a little encouragement to stick up for herself.

Now they weren't at work, however, and Dubenko seemed unsure how to proceed. Abby broke the ice, "I thought you said you liked _foreign_ films."

Dubenko replied, "I _do_ like foreign films." At Abby's raised eyebrows and playful smile, he caught on and grinned, "Even _I_ know better than to ask a girl if she likes science fiction."

Abby laughed. They were saved from further small talk by Alex's morbid musings about just how much of Darth Vader's body could be missing under that mask and armor. This launched Dubenko into a vivid description of hemicorporectomy procedures, with Alex eagerly prompting for gory details:

"So they cut offthe guy's. . . you know . . ?"

"Oh yeah. Hmmm, if that happened to Anakin, it would have to be after he fathered Luke and Lea . . ."

"What happens when he has to go to the bathroom?"

As Dubenko and Alex discussed this subject with relish, Sam rolled her eyes, looking over at Abby, who shrugged, contemplating which of the two participants in the conversation was creepier. Dubenko was way more cheerful and enthusiastic than one ought to be when talking about chopping off half of someone's body. But he brought that kind of kooky glee to most subjects and she was getting used to it. In contrast, from what Abby knew of Alex, he was bored unless something gross or violent was involved. Of course, he was just a kid. Maybe he would grow out of it. Or maybe he would grow up to be a trauma surgeon. He already kind of had the hair . . .

Susan and Jerry returned and shared their bounty. Apropos of nothing, Susan asked Abby, "So, who were you in love with, Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?" At Sam's blank stare, she explained, "All the girls in my fifth grade class had crushes on either Luke or Han."

Abby snarked, "Bo Duke."

"Ewww!" Susan swatted Abby with her program.

"Well, I guess I'd have to go with Han," Abby said, "My little brother thought he **_was_** Luke Skywalker, so that would've been kind of incestuous. He had the Jedi underwear and everything."

"I had the pillowcase, so I could go to sleep with Luke every night," Susan sighed comically. Abby and Sam giggled, and Dubenko, who was listening in on the exchange, laughed quietly.

Susan turned on the surgeon and asked, grinning, "What about you? I bet you had the underwear."

Abby wondered ifSusanwas deliberately trying to embarassDubenko, afterhis participation in the tenure fiasco, but she couldn'tdetect any malice in her friend's light-hearted tone. Dubenkoseemed both startled and amused by Susan's query. He stammered, "I, uh, I was in high school in 1978."

"I didn't hear a 'no,'" Susan teased, "Did that sound like a 'no' to you guys?"

Dubenko grinned, "Um, that would be a 'no' on the underwear." Then, somewhat sheepishly, he admitted, "I did, however, build scale replicas of the Death Star and the Millennium Falcon."

Jerry put in, "Oh, yeah. I remember those kits. With the little decals for the gun turrets, and that awesome glue . . ."

Dubenko shook his head, "Mmm, the kits weren't precise enough. You know, a few millimeters deviance, multiplied by the ratio . . . well, it adds up. So, I made them from scratch." He held his hands about two feet apart, saying, "My Death Star was this big across."

"You don't still have them, do you?" Jerry asked, "I know this guy on e-bay who would pay _mucho dinero_."

"Uh uh. I kept the Falcon for a while, but then gave it to someone. And the Death Star . . . Well, I knew that my, uh, housemates were going to destroy it anyway, so I decided it should go out with a bang."

"You blew it up?" said Alex, glancing sideways at his mom and trying not to sound too excited.

"Yep," Dubenko nodded, with a little lopsided smile. Jerry looked impressed. Abby wondered what it was about the males of the species that made them almost universally revere explosions.

"How?" Alex prompted.

Sam started shooting Dubenko meaningful glares. '_Yeah, good luck with that_,' Abby smirked to herself.

Oblivious, Dubenko explained, "Blowing it up, that was the easy part. Just took apart a few – well, quite a few – firecrackers and stuffed them inside. But remember how flames spread across the surface right before the explosions? That was trickier. You need an accelerant, of course, but it can't be too unstable or the whole thing will go up . . ."

Dubenko went on a bit about chemical reactions and combustibility. Alex, a hint of impatience in his vioce, tried to draw him back to practical matters by saying, "So, what did you use?"

Dubenko opened his mouth to reply, when Sam, who had been trying desperately to catch the surgeon's attention, gave up on non-verbal cues and cut in harshly with, "Do you really think it's a good idea to give my thirteen-year-old son instructions for how to make explosives?"

Abby could barely contain her mirth as Dubenko cocked his head and stared off to the side, obviously pondering the issue. '_He doesn't quite get the concept of a rhetorical question, does he?_'

Dubenko glanced at Sam, but looked away quickly, perhaps fleeing the protective anger in her demeanor. When he made eye contact with Abby, she pursed her lips to keep from laughing and shook her head from side to side almost imperceptibly. Taking the hint, he answered Sam weakly, "Oh, ah, maybe . . . not."

Alex scowled at his mother, "I'm just going to find it online, you know."

Sam sniped back, "That's why God made parental controls."

Mother and son were still bickering when the theater lights dimmed.

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Author's note: OK, this chapter is pure summer fluff. Hope you liked it anyway. The Abby/Jake stuff is speculation; it isn't based on spoilers. Not that we care much about Jake anyway . . . heh.


	4. After the Rain

Author's notes: (1) I've switched to 'Lucien' to be consistent with cannon. Eventually, I'll change chapter 2 accordingly. (2) I really am not plagiarizing from Ginny3's "End of the Day/Forging the Bonds of Friendship" series. I've been tweaking a draft of this chapter for weeks. But as I read (and enjoyed) Ginny's stories, I noticed that this chapter and the next of my story overlap the events depicted in hers. I considered changing details to avoid this, but feared that might weaken the story. In any case, I hope that the tone of my story is different enough to be worth reading.

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Abby knocked on Dr. Dubenko's office door, not entirely convinced that it was wise for her to be here. She hadn't spoken with the surgeon since he'd tried to convince her to sleep with him before his prostatectomy. She only knew that the operation was scheduled for later today because of her contacts on the nursing staff.

She recalled her last conversation with Dubenko in that peculiar blurry way that one remembers a bizarre dream. One moment he was describing treatment options and their potential physical consequences in excruciating detail, the next, without pausing for breath, he was explaining, quite scientifically, why she ought to have sex with him. It should have been funny, but it wasn't.

Abby stood by her reply, and was pretty sure that Lucien had accepted, and maybe even expected, it. But she couldn't get the desperation in his eyes out of her mind. It wasn't just sexual desperation, either; he seemed desperate to make some kind of human connection, and wholly unable to do so in anything like an appropriate way. Thinking back to how he had immediately spilled the details about his test results when she stopped him in the hall, she would bet money that she was the first person he'd told who wasn't involved in his medical treatment.

Of course, Dubenko had undoubtedly discussed the matter with oncologists and urological surgeons. But even if they tried to help him process the emotional side of his situation, Abby suspected they would have hit a brick wall . . . a brick wall covered with numbers, figures, and perfectly logical arguments.

Not getting any response, Abby knocked again. She was about to give up when she heard Dubenko's voice say, "Yes?" as the door opened a few inches.

Abby noted that Dubenko was wearing blue scrubs, but over them he wore a sweater rather than his lab coat. Looking at her, the expression on his face flickered between wariness and shame.

"Hi," Abby began.

Dubenko responded stiffly, "Hi."

"Can I come in?"

He started to open the door further, then hesitated, mumbling, "I, uh, I don't know if . . ."

Not quite sure how to proceed in light of his reaction, Abby decided to go with humor and hope for the best. She smirked playfully, "I'm not here for a quickie."

Dubenko sniffed in surprise, almost laughing. Then he scanned Abby's features intently. Apparently satisfied that she was teasing, not mocking, he backed up and led her into the office. She found an empty chair to sit on. Dubenko remained standing, not exactly pacing, but hovering in a way that gave the impression of pacing in place. His eyes were averted, inaccessible. Abby waited for him to get himself together enough to deal with her.

After a minute or two, the surgeon leaned against the only uncluttered edge of his desk, took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He put his glasses back on and said, "I guess, uh, I guess propositioning you was not exactly advancing my 'don't romantically pressure Abby' agenda . . ."

Abby pursed her lips, feigning seriousness, and replied, "Well, to be fair, it was probably the least romantic proposition I've ever received."

That earned her an endearingly self-conscious smile. "Why are you here?" he asked.

For most people, such a question would be posed as a challenge or a dismissal, but Abby surmised that, with Dubenko, it was probably just a question. She responded, "I'm not going to sleep with you, but I _am_ concerned about you. This might not be the best time for you to be alone with your thoughts."

He shrugged, "Unfortunately, the alternative is for me to inflict those thoughts upon other people. That doesn't usually work out well."

Abby nodded, having endured some truly awkward moments when Dubenko decided to share some of his mental processes with her. He never seemed aware, at the time, of how uncomfortable those conversational train-wrecks were, but maybe they were painful for him in retrospect. Really, all she wanted to do right now was keep him company. If that meant enduring some weirdness, so be it. It couldn't be worse than their last encounter. "Why don't you just tell me what's up next?" she suggested.

Dubenko obligingly missed the accidental double entendre and launched into a blow-by-blow description of his impending surgery. His voice was clear and steady, though a bit rushed. As he spoke, he manipulated a butterfly clip between his fingers, balancing it so that the angles between the sides alternated from acute to obtuse. Most of what he described was familiar to Abby, though she learned that the procedure might be done laparoscopically, which would cut down on the amount of in-patient time. Among the advantages of the laparoscopic approach that Dubenko listed was the possibility of the patient remaining conscious, though paralyzed from the waist down and under local anesthetic.

"You want to be AWAKE for this?" Abby blurted out.

Dubenko got up and began walking. He traced his finger along the bookshelf, straightening the spines of the books, as he replied, "It would be an interesting qualitative experiment. After all, I've experienced thousands of surgical procedures, but none from that vantage point. The telemetry from the laparoscopic camera could be sent to a monitor that I would be able to see. And since urology isn't my specialty, it would be an opportunity to observe a new technique . . ."

Abby raised her eyebrows in disbelief. Dubenko moved back to his spot at the desk, hands drifting separately amidst the papers on either side of him. "It's a moot point," he explained, glancing at her briefly, "Gerald said he wouldn't operate on me if I was awake – said I would distract him. And he's got the best track-record for the nerve-sparing procedure, so I want him to do it. Plus, it's fairly likely that he'll end up converting to an open procedure, anyway."

Abby concluded that this Gerald must be a wise man. Dubenko's nervous fidgeting was making _her_ a bit crazy right now, and she didn't have to try to perform surgery on him. She shook her head, bemused, and persisted, "But you'd do it if you could. You'd want to stay conscious to watch . . . _that_ . . . happening to _you_ . . .?"

Dubenko's eyes focused somewhere distant, as if really contemplating the hypothetical question for the first time. His hands stopped ruffling the papers and he folded his arms tightly across his chest. After almost a minute, he shook his head and murmured, "No. No, I don't want to see it."

He met Abby's eyes and admitted in a soft, haunted tone, "If I could be unconscious _already_, I would be."

Now that he was still, Abby saw the exhaustion etched into his face, making the sharp angles even sharper. His posture and movements typically conveyed boundless energy, but now they seemed strained, like he couldn't turn it off, couldn't stop burning fuel even though his reserves were depleted. Abby wondered when he had last slept. Tactfully, she suggested, "You know, Lucien, there's nothing wrong with taking something to help you calm down before getting operated on . . ."

"I took 10mg of Diazepam last night, and another ten," he looked at his watch, "70 minutes ago."

"Ah." So much for that idea. She smiled sympathetically, "This is about as calm as it gets, huh?"

"Afraid so." Arms still folded, Dubenko sank into the nearby desk chair. His gaze wandered restlessly around the room, though his body stayed put.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Abby asked, then added with a wry grin, "I mean, apart from the obvious . . ."

"Heh. Actually, I'm not, uh, supposed to do 'the obvious' for 8 hours prior to the surgery . . . even by myself."

Abby chuckled, "Well, that doesn't seem very fair."

"No, it's not . . ." he trailed off, gazing at nothing, this time without the expression of intense concentration that usually accompanied his lapses in eye contact. Abby shifted in her chair, which roused him.

"Sorry," he said, looking at her, then looking down, "I'm not very good company right now."

Abby wondered whether he was trying to get rid of her. She guessed that, if he was, he wasn't trying very hard. He was blunt enough to tell her he needed to be alone, if that was the case. It seemed more like he didn't want to impose on her, to bother her with his problems when he didn't have the mental focus to contribute something edifying as his part of the conversation.

'Ha – a few days ago he was plenty willing to impose,' Abby sniped to herself. But she knew she wasn't being charitable. The last time they'd interacted, he was in panic mode. Now he appeared more resigned. Abby hoped, fleetingly, that Shawna the "facilitator" had been able to help, though she suspected that his attitude change was more a result of time, fatigue, and sedatives.

Normally, conversations with Dubenko consisted of him lobbing strange comments or questions at her, and her volleying as best she could. Alternatively, he might go off on a topic at length, whether or not she was interested in said topic. Now he wasn't doing either of these things, which just seemed wrong. That meant she would have to take matters into her own hands.

"OK," Abby announced decisively, "Let's talk about something else."

When he looked up at her, she continued, "Something that doesn't have anything to do with surgery."

"Or sex," he added, smirking slightly.

"Or sex," she agreed. "Hmmm, well that rules out most of prime time television, and leaves, what, uh, Shakespeare?"

"No way, Lockhart. Shakespeare's full of sex."

"Oh, right. All that stuff about 'tools' and biting one's thumb, and such. You pick a topic."

Lucien smiled, clearly warming to the prospect of having a conversation with her about anything he wanted. "Well, there is that classic in epidemiology that you received for Christmas, or, wait, here's an idea: I went to a Bioethics conference recently, and someone gave a cogent proposal about the conditions under which it would be morally permissible for medical personnel to perform active euthanasia during a natural disaster . . ."

Abby interjected, grinning, "And the rat book it is!"

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End file.
